


Strangers When We Meet

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Gloria Scott, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Series 2 Compliant, The 90's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tells John the story of his first case, and his first love.  (Not Series 2 compliant, see notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers When We Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic from my LJ, edited a bit. Originally posted January 31st, 2011.
> 
> Originally beta read by ginbitch.
> 
> Intentionally campy, hedonistic, and OTT; I drew heavily from films like 'Velvet Goldmine' and 'Party Monster.' Horribly OOC in some places and pretty much self-indulgent tripe; consider yourself warned.

Sherlock was working a case, something about a missing manuscript for a celebrity tell-all and a real estate deal gone south. John had opted out, since he was scheduled to work the full week, as Sarah had been forced to take her maternity leave a bit early -- second baby in fourteen months, she and Tom really had their hands full. Sherlock had assured him it wouldn't be particularly dangerous; he was only taking the case as a favour to an old friend and John needn't concern himself with it.  
  
This, of course, piqued John's interest. Sherlock wasn't known to have many friends. He hadn't used the term sarcastically, or with any kind of inflection that would suggest Sherlock held this person in anything other than high esteem.  
  
John had wondered about it for days and finally broached the subject with Sherlock when the case was concluded. There was always a small window of time from the end of one case to the start of Sherlock's next undertaking in which Sherlock would actually be inclined to hold conversations like a normal human being.  
  
It was just after dinner when John inquired after Sherlock's friend, one Langdale Pike, who was the author of the missing manuscript. He was quite amazed when Sherlock launched into a detailed recounting of his past.  
  
\----------------------------------------

 

In his first year at Cambridge, Sherlock Holmes tried to blend in, more or less. He was free from the uniformity and routine of public school. Finally he could escape the moniker of 'freak.' Oh, he'd long known how to keep his head down, but it had never seemed to do much good; eventually he'd slip up, and there would be uneasy silences and fearful glances and he'd beg until Mummy had him sent somewhere else, even though they were all the same. But university was to be different. Everyone wasn't there because they had to be, they were there because they wanted to _learn_. Or so he'd thought.  
  
His first week taking breakfast in the formal hall had proved that they were all just there because it was what was expected of them as future leaders in business and the world of Realpolitik. They parroted opinions and practised plastic smiles at each other over the long tables. It was tedious and soul-crushing and he slipped up just once with a comment about Seb's one-night stand after the freshers' mixer. He'd been doing so well with keeping quiet, but it was glaringly obvious that she'd been gold-digging and it was the friendly thing to do. Normal blokes warned other blokes when a girl was bad news. Seb didn't see it that way and sneered about it to anyone who would listen, but nonetheless paraded Sherlock around, calling him his friend and pulling him out like an ace up his sleeve at parties when he wanted to cut someone down. Sherlock knew they didn't really see him as more than a sharp instrument through which they wielded their own cruelty, but no one else talked to him, so it was them or the crushing loneliness that had dogged him his whole life.  
  
He was the peripheral eccentric to the cluster of future City boys, posh enough to warrant their tolerance, but too odd to be part of the group proper. He refused to wear their uniform of polo shirts and khakis and stiffly gelled hair. Instead he preferred sharp black trousers and a loose white shirt, accented with a fitted black waistcoat. It was an affectation, but the look suited him. He let his hair grow over his ears, longer than it had been since he was a blonde child.  
  
He kept mostly to himself, except when Seb pulled him out to parties. They'd ply him with drinks and goad him into talking to the kinds of women Seb had described as 'tarted-up bints that only had an opinion when they were on their backs' and then laugh as he stammered his way through torturous conversations, hoping none of them were drunk enough to think that going home with him was better than alcohol poisoning. He'd known for some time that his interest lay elsewhere, but if he wanted to keep his tenuous social status, he couldn't breathe a word to anyone. He knew he wasn't the only queer in Cambridge, but he was certainly the only one in his circle.  
  
In Sherlock Holmes' second year at Cambridge, he gave up trying to make friends and in the process found his first true friend. Sebastian and his lot had moved into a college house, so he rarely saw them. Sherlock had taken to spending more time in the library, picking out books at random in a bid to find something that held his interest. Officially, he was studying Chemical Engineering, but he'd already decided that devoting his life to discovering new polymers or designer anti-depressants would be beyond dull. Any time not spent in the library or his room was spent in the lab, indulging in his own curiosity and mostly ignoring his coursework.  
  
It was three weeks into Lent when he first met Victor Trevor. He'd been killing time while waiting for a solution to precipitate, measuring the minutes in cigarettes and idly reading the life stories of the people that walked by. He'd left his coat inside, but the enjoyment of nicotine outweighed the cold. He'd been lost in his own mind again, shifting between future experiments and deductions and meaningless details when a silky voice purred from beside him, "Can I trouble you for a light?"  
  
Sherlock's head whipped around as he chastised himself for not noticing that someone had walked up next to him. He was momentarily speechless. The boy the voice belonged to (and he was more of a boy than a man, even if Sherlock judged him to be around his own age) was bloody gorgeous. His long, naturally blonde fringe fell across perfectly sculpted brows and into one of his wide blue eyes. Just a hint of mascara darkened the lashes enough to be noticeable. His chalk-white complexion made his cherry-red lips (untinted, but bearing the remnants of a clear gloss) stand out. His facial structure was delicate, tapering sharply to his square chin that bore just a hint of a divot. He was wearing a deep blue velvet smoking jacket (chosen no doubt to compliment his eyes) with black satin lapels. A bright red cravat was tucked into the vee made by the three undone buttons of his charcoal grey silk shirt. Fitted pinstriped trousers. Sherlock couldn't see his shoes, but he was willing to infer that they were either black brogues or ankle boots. Something without much of a heel, as he was easily six inches shorter than Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock felt a hot blush creep into his cheeks as he fumbled for his lighter, a simple chrome Zippo that had been his grandfather Siger's when he'd served in the RAF. He handed it to the boy, who plucked it from his fingers and lit the Djarum Black he'd produced from a silver case. He handed the lighter back to Sherlock.  
  
"So you're the great Sherlock Holmes. I must say, your reputation precedes you, but they never mentioned you were so..." he ran his eyes over Sherlock in a clearly appraising manner, a smirk quirking the corner of his perfect lips, "tall." The innuendo in his voice was unmistakable. He offered his hand. "Victor Trevor."  
  
The language centres of Sherlock's brain finally kicked into gear. "What reputation?" He ignored the boy's outstretched hand and crossed his arms over his chest. He felt panic start to rise, fearing that he'd been outed, despite being so careful with his body language and how long he let his eyes linger on an attractive man.  
  
"Oh, just that you're quite clever and quite posh. Nothing _incriminating_." Victor took a drag from his cigarette and leaned against the side of the building. "If you're as good as they say you are, then you already know enough about me to be getting on with." He fished in his pocket and extended a card between his index and middle fingers.  
  
The pale lavender card (heavy stock, embossed lettering) was from a pub in Newnham. On the back, in a jagged scrawl was Victor's name and a phone number.  
  
"I think you'll find the company infinitely more pleasant than the dives around here." He made a show of checking his watch (vintage Rolex, mid 1930's at a guess) and pushed off the wall. "Do hope to see you soon."  
  
Sherlock watched as Victor disappeared around the corner of the building. He walked deliberately, like a runway model, one foot crossing slightly over the other while keeping his shoulders straight.  
  
Sherlock tossed what little remained of his cigarette to the ground and went back inside. He had no historical precedent to judge by, but he was fairly certain he'd just been asked out. He gathered his things and disposed of his experiment. He wouldn't be able to concentrate nor enjoy it, not when he had such an intriguing new puzzle.  
  
Who, exactly, was Victor Trevor? His overly affected drawl covered an accent that spoke of breeding and old money. He was obviously well-off financially, as all the clothing he wore was vintage but recently tailored to flatter. His watch alone was probably worth over ₤2000, depending on the exact make and model.  
  
Sherlock had never seen him around before. Of course, that wasn't saying much, one in a sea of ten thousand faces, but he would have noticed him had he spotted him. So they must have a mutual acquaintance.  
  
Judging simply by his intentional flamboyance, Sherlock discounted any involvement in hard science or maths, along with theology, economics, or politics. No calluses from a stringed instrument, lips didn't move right for woodwind or brass, musculature underdeveloped for percussion, joints all wrong for piano. So not music either. That still left a wide range of subjects to choose from. He didn't have enough data to make a solid deduction, but literature seemed most likely based on his overall appearance and demeanour.  
  
Any number of flummoxed party guests could have mentioned Sherlock to a friend, and so on, until it reached Victor. Some connections were more likely than others, but none were direct, A-to-B. There was really no way of knowing for certain with the available data.  
  
Sherlock returned to his room and put on _Hunky Dory_ (Rykodisk re-issue, his original vinyl copy was still in his old room at his mother's house), then booted up his laptop. He searched the university directory. He'd been correct in assuming literature, as Victor was listed as a third-year student reading English at Corpus Christi. With no more information to be gleaned from the meagre offering of the directory, he settled on his bed to stare at the ceiling. He ran the details over again.  
  
Victor hadn't been carrying a bag. Everyone carried a bag, everywhere. He hadn't been wearing a coat, either, and the smoking jacket would have provided little protection from the cold for a trip across the campus. He hadn't just spotted Sherlock and thought to say hello. It had been premeditated. Victor had sought him out for the sole purpose of introducing himself.  
  
There wasn't really much else he could infer about Victor than what he already had. He hadn't observed as much as he usually did, since he'd been sort-of awestruck. Stupid of him. Sloppy.  
  
No one had ever tried to pull him before. He'd seen the process though, countless times. Victor's body language had been textbook. Sherlock had never tried to pull anyone himself, but he was confident he could since he knew all the signs and signals. He'd never put that knowledge into practice, even as an experiment, because it would be like admitting a weakness. Sexuality was a weakness, full stop, regardless of the prefix. That, and he was terrified of making the wrong assumption about someone's orientation and making a fool of himself. He was already ridiculed for being freakish, swotty, rubbish at sports -- he didn't need to add poof to that list. As his brother had so often reassured him, the teasing had died down as he'd got older, but the sentiments remained firmly in place. Mycroft had always told him to grin and bear it, because one day he would realize the importance of _networking_ with his peer group. As if he had any peers.  
  
He contemplated calling Victor. Sherlock had an irrational aversion to actually placing calls, stemming from one misdialed number when he was seven years old. In addition, his mother always chastised him on his phone etiquette, because he never rung off like a normal person (really, what was the point of saying goodbye or some other nonsense when the conversation was over?) and he didn't want to make a bad impression. Email or even a posted letter worked well enough for most situations he'd encountered, so he got by.  
  
He did want to see Victor again. He wasn't just attractive, he was stunning. More than that, he'd known who Sherlock was and didn't seem at all put off by it. Quite the contrary. The nervous burning low in Sherlock's gut was replaced with a flutter of hope.  
  
This could be good. Maybe he'd even get to kiss him, or more. Sherlock found the idea of casual sex both abhorrent and intriguing. He'd never traded handjobs with mates like some of the other boys in his previous schools had. He hadn't had any mates, nor had he been fey enough for the older boys to single him out when he was young.  
  
This could also be terrible. He wouldn't put it past Seb and his lackeys to put someone up to it in an attempt to humiliate him. No, the wardrobe was wrong. Victor's image was too carefully tailored and comfortably worn to be a fraud. Old school acquaintance of one of them? Possible, but unlikely they'd risk the inevitable questions that admitting to knowing someone so blatantly homosexual would raise.  
  
He could go to the pub. Would Victor even be there? He said _soon_ , but that was an imprecise measurement of time. It wasn't like he had anything on, now that he'd scrapped his experiment (which would have taken him into the early hours of the morning), so he could go. Did he want to go?  
  
_Fuck it._ Sherlock grabbed his jacket and cigarettes and bolted out the door before he could change his mind.  
  
The pub itself was a tiny place under a womens' clothing shop on the High Street. There were no signs to advertise, just a set of old stone stairs leading downward. Sherlock pushed open the steel fire door that bore a brass placard with 'The Hellfire Club' engraved in a florid script. He was instantly hit with the smell of cigarettes and wine. The bar was to his right. Tables dotted the centre of the room, and ringed an open space in front of the darkened stage along the left wall. Along the back was a row of booths. The décor leaned toward a traditional pub with a heavy Victorian feel. In contrast, an 80's pop song played in the background at a level low enough to allow for comfortable conversation. It really wasn't what he'd been expecting.  
  
He scanned the area for signs of Victor. The clientèle was made up mostly of men in their 30's, some older, mostly professionals, paired off and hunched quietly over tables. A few men at the bar, more the blue-collar type. A group of younger people in one of the back booths, and at the centre was Victor holding court.  
  
Sherlock's breath caught. Victor looked up and smiled, then turned to his friends, who all turned in their chairs to gawp. _So it begins_ , he thought with a sinking feeling.  
  
He took a step forward and was immediately brought up short by a woman stepping in front of him. Retired stage performer, judging by how thickly she applied her eyeshadow. Age, fallen arches and a back injury had put an end to her career seven, possibly eight years previous.  
  
"Are you Victor's new great, dark man? Not very dark, though, are you? Bit pasty from where I'm standing." She eyed him critically, her lips drawn into an exaggerated moue. She held out her hand, fingers crooked downward. "Gloria Scott, proprietress."  
  
Sherlock took her hand for the exact length of time considered polite, then withdrew.  
  
Victor materialized at Sherlock's side. "Glory, do be quiet. You'll put the boy off." He turned to Sherlock and said _en sotto_ , "Don't listen to a word she says, she's slightly mad."  
  
"He does look pale. Nothing a good _stiff_ drink won't cure, though." She winked, pausing for effect, then addressed Sherlock. "What'll it be?"  
  
"Um." He'd only ever had lager in pubs, since that's what Sebastian was always shoving into his hands. He'd never liked wine either. Too bitter and acidic. He hadn't much experience with liquor, outside of vague memories of his father extolling the virtue of a good single-malt Scotch. Sherlock thought most of it tasted like tree bark. He didn't like the way any kind of alcohol slowed his mind and made his muscles feel too loose and slippery under his skin.  
  
What was Victor drinking? Something citrussy, with gin as a base component. "Gin and Tonic."  
  
Victor threaded his arm through Sherlock's and pulled him to the booth before he could get his drink. Sherlock stood awkwardly as he was introduced around the table.  
  
Wil: dark-skinned and dreadlocked; heavily entrenched in the industrial music scene, judging by the piercings and the chunky fishnet jumper he wore over layers of clinging jersey-knit cotton; taller than Sherlock and thickly muscled; his jewellery suggested he was studying pre-Columbian Caribbean archaeology, but had originally focused on Central America.  
  
Godfrey: a slim woman with dark, chin-length hair, severely parted and slicked back; a thin pencil moustache drawn just above her lip; expertly wearing a smart pinstriped suit and wielding a cocktail-length quellazaire; her appearance was a fashion statement rather than a declaration of gender identity; American; postgrad in European literature, no, history.  
  
Draped across Godfrey was her girlfriend, Violet: idolized Godfrey and dressed to compliment her - the black satin elbow-length gloves, tight red dress, black birdcage veil pinned into her platinum blonde hair evidenced that - along with the bright red lipstick (didn't suit her complexion) and the way she sipped her drink; not highly intelligent, but enough to complete her degree in economics.  
  
Regino was the epitome of a suave Italian; sculptor by the state of his hands; dressed plainly but elegantly in a wine-coloured cotton shirt and tailored trousers. Studying History of Art as a fall-back, most likely.  
  
Sherlock felt ugly and under-dressed. His black pea coat was nothing special, nor was the grey cashmere scarf around his neck. He hadn't even changed his shirt. Everyone around the table had a larger-than-life presence, and Sherlock was just gawky and weird in comparison.  
  
Sherlock was shuffled into the booth and forced to sit uncomfortably close to Godfrey, while Victor pressed in on his other side. There was another awkward moment when Gloria delivered his drink and he went for his wallet. Victor laughed and told him not to worry, it was on his tab. Sherlock sipped his drink and fought the urge to pull a face at the taste of it. He waited for the inevitable questions and small talk to begin.  
  
Godfrey was the first to break the silence. "So what's your superpower?"  
  
Sherlock stared at her blankly.  
  
Victor jumped in, leaning conspiratorially forward over the table. "He's psychic."  
  
Godfrey raised one thin eyebrow. "Really?"  
  
"No." Inwardly, he sighed. It had been stupid to get his hopes up.  
  
"That's dull then," was her reply.  
  
"Well, I think he's lying," Violet drawled in a grating Sloane accent. "I heard that he could tell all your deepest, darkest, secrets just by standing in front of you," she turned Godfrey's face, widening her eyes and pitching her voice low, "just by gazing into your eyes." Then she burst into a fit of giggles.  
  
Sherlock gauged her level of inebriation. "Judging by your body mass, you've had three drinks of your own and half of one of your girlfriend's." He quickly scanned her. "One glass of white wine and two vodka-based cocktails. One was mixed with cranberry and grapefruit juices, the other with orange juice and artificial peach flavour. You're not used to drinking because you come from a strict teetotal family."  
  
He turned to Godfrey. "You drink alcohol for the taste rather than the effect. You've had two glasses of whiskey with ice, bourbon most likely, since you're feeling homesick and it reminds you of the people you attended university with in the States."  
  
He moved on to Regino. "You're the opposite. You drink white wine because your family drank red, and you'd like to distance yourself from their influence. You've only nursed the one glass all night because you're starting a new project tomorrow and want to avoid a hangover."  
  
His eyes darted to Wil. "You're on your third drink, also bourbon, even though you don't care for it. You're attracted to Godfrey and you're trying to out-drink her as an unconscious display of dominance."  
  
He ended with Victor. "You prefer citrus-flavoured drinks to compliment the taste of your cigarettes. You regularly drink to excess, but have only had two so far tonight. You're pacing yourself because you're expecting it to be a late night or you're planning on using drugs, cocaine most likely, at some point later in the evening."  
  
He took a breath and waited for their reactions.  
  
Violet looked between Godfrey and Wil, then to Sherlock, then slid from the booth and gathered her coat. Godfrey gave Wil a significant look as Violet stormed off, then followed after her.  
  
Wil got up. "You can piss off, mate," he said as he too departed.  
  
Regino chuckled and drained his wine. "And now I'm out a model." He signalled Gloria for another drink, then picked up Godfrey's abandoned glass and downed it.  
  
Victor beamed. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Reggie. You've always got me." He threw a smouldering look and posed.  
  
"Pff. If I wanted to sculpt a young boy, I would have asked you first. It's about the beauty of the male form. Although..." He squinted one eye and looked between Victor and Sherlock. Then he got up from his chair and backed up a few paces, tilting his head. He mumbled something to himself in Italian and walked toward the bar, intercepting his drink from Gloria on the way.  
  
Victor turned to Sherlock. Sherlock cringed inwardly, waiting to be told off.  
  
"So how did you do it?" Victor didn't look angry. Amused and curious, not suspicious or guarded in the slightest.  
  
"I observed and applied what I know," he shrugged. No one ever believed it.  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Sherlock walked him through his deductions. He spoke more quickly when he got to the ones about Victor (slight irritation of the mucus membranes and bags under the eyes, overly relaxed posture, but fingering the bottom of his glass with impatience), hoping that if he did it fast, like ripping off a plaster, the rebuff wouldn't sting so much.  
  
"That's extraordinary! You're a marvel."  
  
Sherlock fought another blush and tried not to smile. "You're not angry that I chased your friends off?"  
  
"Vi is a loathsome cow, though she did bring you to my attention. Godfrey's better off without her. _Godfrey_ is due to change back into Irene again soon, once she gets tired of the Kabarett persona. If she takes up with Wil, and she will, she'll go dreadfully goth, and she'll be terribly depressing to be around. Wil is mostly eye candy, although we've been working on him for ages to embrace his inner bisexual. And because of you, Reg is going to ask me to model for him, so I'll be immortalized in a high-grade marble/ poly-resin composite. Also, the way your eyes gleam when you do that is quite attractive. And you're blushing."  
  
Sherlock looked away and smiled into his glass. A warm, bubbly feeling crept up from his stomach that had nothing to do with his drink.  
  
Victor shifted slightly closer. "Since the party's all but dead, what say we take it back to my place?"  
  
"What about Regino?"  
  
"What about him? He knows the way home. I expect we'll be seeing him sooner rather than later, as we are housemates. So are you in, or are you out?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
To Sherlock's infinite disappointment, Regino caught up with them a few doors down from the pub. He began chatting excitedly to Victor about sketches and muses and poses, all boring. Sherlock tuned it out for the duration of the train ride, content to study Victor from the corner of his eye.  
  
Victor's room took up most of the third floor of the house. He shared a bathroom with Regino, who had the other, smaller room on the floor. He explained that Godfrey lived one floor down, in a tiny room under the stairs they'd dubbed 'The Oubliette.' The rest of the residents of the house were all boring arts and humanities students that Reg and Godfrey shared classes with.  
  
Victor motioned for Sherlock to sit on the bed while he fixed them drinks and turned on the stereo. Sherlock took in every detail and stored it for future analysis. Regino returned with a large sketchpad and pencils, then settled himself in the armchair.  
  
Victor began to strip, dancing to the techno on the stereo. Regino laughed and cheered him on. Sherlock tried not to stare. Victor had a slight but compact build; slim shoulders, just a hint of definition in his arms and torso. Small, dark pink nipples. Hairless chest. Well-developed runner's thighs and calves, tapering to delicate ankles.  
  
When Victor was down to his pants, he stood in front of Sherlock. Sherlock willed himself not to look at what was so shamelessly presented.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Sherlock looked up, his confusion evident.  
  
"You're not shy, are you? You _did_ agree to it," Victor said, adopting the smooth drawl he had dropped in their conversation at the pub.  
  
"Agree to what? I didn't agree to-"  
  
"Oh, you are shy! We're all friends here, aren't we Reggie? You're going to pose with me. Only a few minutes, just so he can flesh out his idea. It'll be a laugh." Victor's eyes drooped and his posture took on a looser, more seductive air.  
  
Sherlock weighed his options. He could walk out. This was well outside his comfort zone. He was shy, but not because he was ashamed of his body. He had a very attractive physique. Years of scaling fences and running from those intent on doing him physical harm - combined with an unnaturally high metabolism - had seen to that. His skin was very sensitive to touch and he'd never been this close to another nearly-naked man before. He was afraid of how his body would react.  
  
If he walked out, that would end any possibility of friendship (or a shag) with Victor. Despite having only talked to him for a few minutes, Sherlock found Victor fascinating. He hadn't peeled back all his layers, not like he usually could within seconds of meeting a person. There was an odd kind of duality about him, a disconnect between the image he projected and the man that lay beneath. It would be a loss.  
  
Sherlock decided that the ends could justify the means. It was an experience. An insight into the artistic process. And Victor had asked. Sherlock finally understood how men could be manipulated by a pretty face and the prospect of sex.  
  
"Fine," Sherlock said, his hands quickly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat as he stood.  
  
Regino circled the both of them, moving arms and legs and nudging hips until he got a position he liked, then dropped back into his chair to sketch furiously. Sherlock stopped worrying about an untimely erection after the first five minutes. Holding the poses was more strenuous than erotic, and the room was cold. The session went on for well over an hour, until Regino hit upon the pose he liked.  
  
Sherlock stood behind Victor, his hands resting on Victor's hips. Sherlock's head was bent to Victor's left shoulder, his long hair falling to cover his face. Victor's head rested on Sherlock's right shoulder, his nose just brushing Sherlock's ear. Victor's left hand gripped Sherlock's hip, while the right was buried in Sherlock's hair, elbow akimbo. Victor's shoulders rested against the upper part of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock imagined it looked intimate, more sensual than blatantly sexual.  
  
Regino finished his sketch and hurried out of the room, calling his thanks over his shoulder as he left. Sherlock gathered his clothes as Victor slipped on a heavy red satin brocade dressing gown. He handed Sherlock a shorter one made of filmy, dark blue silk.  
  
"You may as well get comfortable." He turned to the desk and opened a drawer.  
  
Sherlock drew the dressing gown tight around him, although it did little to keep out the chill of the room. He sat on the bed and studied the line of Victor's back. He felt his nervousness returning. He pulled his knees up to his chest and burrowed his toes into a fold in the duvet.  
  
"What's your favourite Bowie album?" Victor asked, palming something before shutting the drawer. He walked over to the shelves containing the stereo and an impressive collection of CDs.  
  
It was hard to name one, they all had merit. He picked the first one he'd bought, when he was thirteen and realized there was more to music than Brahms and Mendelssohn. "Ziggy Stardust."  
  
Victor held up two CDs. "Motion picture version or studio recording?"  
  
"Studio."  
  
"Purist," Victor said with a teasing lilt. He loaded the CD and adjusted the volume to a quieter level. He sat sideways on the bed next to Sherlock, one bent knee just brushing Sherlock's ankle. "So, I've got a special treat for us, and it begins with a 'k.'" He produced a small amber vial.  
  
Sherlock eyed the vial. "Ketamine?"  
  
He wasn't a complete stranger to drugs. His experiences had been limited to the wide range of 'Mother's little helpers' (mostly anti-anxiety tablets and sleep aides) that he'd knicked from the bottles in his Mum's bathroom cabinet, along with cold medications he'd refined in his room. He would have preferred using the chemistry lab and would have got much better results, but there the possibility of getting caught and sent down was too great. His experiment in trying to synthesize LSD hadn't gone well and he'd ended up with a mild case of ergotoxicosis. He knew there were plenty of suppliers in the area, but had no way of gauging the quality of their wares. From Victor's clothing and personal effects, Sherlock could tell that he only dealt with products of the highest grade. Since Victor was a habitual user, it would follow that he would have the same discerning taste in recreational substances. What an auspicious day.  
  
"Ever tried it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"We'll start you off with just a bump then." He opened the vial and tapped out a small amount onto the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
Sherlock uncurled his knees and Victor held his hand close to Sherlock's face. Sherlock leaned forward and snorted it neatly.  
  
"You're going to want to lie down in a minute." Victor tapped out a much larger bump for himself and made short work of it. He crawled between Sherlock and the wall. He urged Sherlock to lie beside him with a tug to the sleeve of his dressing gown.  
  
Sherlock obliged and settled on his back, starting to feel - for lack of a better word - slightly drunk. Victor lay on his side, his hooded eyes trained on Sherlock. He traced a line up Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock turned his head, watching Victor watch him. Then Victor leaned in and kissed him. It was just a gentle brush of lips and a ghost of breath, but it was electrifying. Victor used a little more pressure on the next kiss, but kept it quick and light. The third kiss was longer, and Sherlock pressed back against Victor's mouth. Victor cupped Sherlock's jaw and tilted his chin to a better angle.  
  
They kissed for long minutes. Sherlock followed Victor's lead as the world started to slowly fragment around them. Everything disappeared away from where he and Victor touched; bodies entwined, connected at a thousand points. Sherlock's stomach felt like it wanted to crawl out of his throat, but in a good way; like a roller coaster, but not. Time ebbed and flowed, sounds were muffled and sharp at the same time, and David Bowie's voice became the voice of God, holding everything within it.  
  
At some point Sherlock must have fallen asleep. Victor was sprawled half on top of him, a comfortable, warm weight. The other half of his body was cold to the point of aching. He craned his neck to see the clock on the night stand. It was just after three. He wondered if he should leave. He had to do something, now that he was awake and freezing.  
  
His shifting must have awoken Victor. Sleepy blue eyes blinked up at him, taking a moment to focus. Then Victor smiled lazily and shuffled himself into a sitting position. He leaned over Sherlock and gave him a lingering kiss, then clambered off the bed. Sherlock sat up, wondering what the proper protocol for the situation was. Victor produced two fags from his silver case and lit them both, then held one to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked up through his lashes and wrapped his lips around the cigarette. Victor's impish smile turned slightly feral and he released the cigarette to run his hand through Sherlock's hair.  
  
Sherlock took a deep drag and removed the fag from his mouth, dragging his gaze upward from Victor's perfect lips to his eyes. Sherlock felt a delicious frisson of nervous anticipation and lust shiver up his spine. 'Moonage Daydream' played softly in the background. Victor took another drag of his cigarette and used his palm to tip Sherlock's head back. He bent down, his lips barely brushing Sherlock's. Sherlock pressed forward to kiss him, but Victor twisted his fingers in Sherlock's hair and tugged, pulling him away from the contact. Victor exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke against Sherlock's mouth, then kissed him roughly.  
  
Victor pulled back and trailed his hand down Sherlock's face. He rubbed his thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip, then turned away. Sherlock smoked as he watched Victor load a cocktail shaker with ice and proceed to fix some kind of drink. Victor's movements were quick and practised. He poured the drinks into martini glasses and walked back to the bed.  
  
He handed one to Sherlock. "Hair of the Dog. You were right about my preference for citrus flavours. I wonder what else you're right about." He grabbed an ashtray, then sat down next to Sherlock. "Go ahead, tell me all about myself. It's my favourite subject."  
  
Sherlock sipped his drink (the touch of pepper was unexpected but interesting) and contemplated where to begin. The subject was a potential minefield. Sherlock had little opinion one way or the other regarding most people's habits and preferences, but experience had shown them to be unwilling to have the most trivial things exposed. He started with the most obvious facts.  
  
"You grew up in Norfolk, on a sprawling country estate. You're an only child. Your father is older than your mother by at least ten years. Your parents divorced shortly before you were sent to boarding school, somewhere in the north. Asygarth, most likely. From there you went on to Eton." This was where things might get complicated. Sherlock knew people hated to have their sexuality discussed, regardless of context. He could skip past it. He really didn't want to alienate Victor now. Victor seemed comfortable enough with himself, but there was more to him than Sherlock could read. It was vexing. But Sherlock wasn't a cautious person by nature, so he continued.  
  
"At Eton, you were singled out by some of the older boys for your feminine features. You used this to your advantage and traded sexual favours for protection, but you liked it. You were equally attracted to the sex itself and the power it gave you." Sherlock paused to drag on his cigarette and sip his drink.  
  
"I'm a _god_ on my knees," Victor purred. "How did you know I grew up in the country? My father owns a shipping company. I could have grown up in the heart of Norwich." He traced a fingertip around the rim of his glass and raised an eyebrow.  
  
"The way you cross the street." Sherlock shrugged.  
  
"Hmm. I'm not technically an only child. I have a half-sister from my father's first marriage. She lives in Australia and I've only met her twice."  
  
"Sister," Sherlock mumbled. Really, he couldn't have known, since she'd obviously had no influence on Victor. He hated to be wrong.  
  
"It's my turn now." Victor finished his drink and leaned over Sherlock to set the glass on the nightstand. "Let me tell you what I know about you." He stubbed out his cigarette and moved the ashtray to sit beside his glass.  
  
Sherlock put his own cigarette out and sipped his drink while he waited for Victor to continue.  
  
"Obviously, you're a David Bowie fan. You don't care much for drinking, but drugs interest you. You're bored with Cambridge. You don't like many people because they're painfully mediocre. You've never met anyone like me before." He plucked Sherlock's mostly empty glass from his fingers and leaned past him to deposit it on the nightstand, this time placing his right hand on Sherlock's left thigh to balance. He didn't move it after he sat down.  
  
"You're a virgin." Victor's hand shifted up Sherlock's thigh and he leaned closer. "You find me devastatingly attractive." His breath ghosted across Sherlock's neck, followed by the press of warm, moist lips under Sherlock's ear. "You would let me fuck you." Victor sucked Sherlock's earlobe into his mouth, then nipped it.  
  
Sherlock couldn't repress his shiver. He sat still as Victor planted his free hand on the bed near Sherlock's hip and sucked wet kisses along his neck. Victor's hand caressed his thigh, hot against the against the cool silk of the dressing gown. Sherlock turned his body into Victor and shifted closer. He placed his own hand tentatively on Victor's waist. Victor mouthed up Sherlock's jaw, pulling back enough to realign himself and move in for a proper kiss.  
  
Victor's lips moved against Sherlock's with intent. He teased his tongue into Sherlock's mouth while the hand on the top of Sherlock's thigh slipped under the seam of the dressing gown and down. He caressed Sherlock's inner thigh with light, slow circles of his fingertips.  
  
Sherlock hoped Victor didn't notice the fine tremors running through his body. He was nervous, but had no desire to slow down. He'd waited forever for this, and catalogued each new sensation with the kind of dedication he put into his chemistry experiments. His hand tightened on Victor's waist and he pulled him down to the bed. It was an awkward position, but served to make what he wanted clear.  
  
"My, aren't you eager?" Victor chuckled. He palmed Sherlock through his briefs.  
  
Sherlock inhaled sharply though his nose. Victor pulled back and stood between Sherlock's spread legs. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and watched as Victor undid the belt of his dressing gown. He didn't take it off, just let it hang open in a clear invitation for Sherlock to finish the job. Sherlock surged up and parted the sides of the dressing gown. He ran his hands along Victor's flanks and mouthed along his chest before pushing the garment from his shoulders. Victor tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock decided he liked having his hair pulled. Victor guided Sherlock's head lower in increments, allowing Sherlock to cover his skin in the same kind of sucking kisses he'd used on Sherlock's neck.  
  
Sherlock's hands settled on Victor's hips, thumbs dipping under the elastic of Victor's pants. Sherlock's mouth moved lower, laving the trail of light hair that ran from Victor's navel downward. His chin brushed the head of Victor's cock, causing Victor's hand to roughly twist in his hair. Sherlock took this as a sign to continue. He used his thumbs to hook the elastic and tugged the waistband down with his teeth, allowing Victor's erection to spring free.  
  
Sherlock may have never done this before, but he'd researched it fully. He was never so thankful for his parents' stilted love life and the books they'd bought in the 70's to spice things up (resulting, of course, in his conception). Long hours spent reading florid, overly-romanticized descriptions were finally going to pay off. He hadn't mastered his gag reflex, but he was confident he would do an adequate job.  
  
He inhaled Victor's scent, savouring it. He ran the pad of his thumb over the tip of Victor's cock while wrapping his fingers around the shaft. He planted an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the glans, then ran his tongue along the ridge. Victor drew a sharp breath. Encouraged, Sherlock wrapped his lips around the head and applied light suction while swirling his tongue. He used a light grip and began stroking slowly up and down the shaft, taking Victor deeper on each downward movement of his fist. Victor remained nearly silent, his soft panting barely audible over the music and the wet sucking sound of Sherlock's mouth.  
  
Sherlock revelled in the tastes and textures, and was disappointed when Victor yanked his head back sharply, forcing him off with an obscene slurp. Victor drew his thumb over Sherlock's swollen bottom lip.  
  
"I want to fuck you."  
  
Sherlock nodded. Victor took a step backwards as Sherlock untied his own dressing gown and slipped it off his shoulders to pool at his waist. He scooted himself back and slid off his briefs, kicking them and the dressing gown to the floor, then settled against the pillows while Victor produced lube and condoms from the drawer of the nightstand. He tossed them on the bed and insinuated himself between Sherlock's spread thighs. They kissed while Victor stroked Sherlock's cock. His hand trailed lower to fondle his balls, then back farther. Victor circled his fingertip over Sherlock's arsehole, then withdrew. Sherlock watched as Victor sat back on his heels and uncapped the lube, squeezing a small amount onto his finger. Sherlock gasped as the now-slick finger returned, the coolness of the lube a pleasant contrast to the heat of his body. Victor's finger slipped inside to the first knuckle, then withdrew. He added more lube and pushed his finger in all the way.  
  
Sherlock willed his muscles to relax. He was no stranger to penetration. He hadn't used more than a single finger on himself since the Christmas hols, though. He hissed in pleasure at the burn and stretch as Victor scissored the two fingers inside him.  
  
Sherlock yelped when Victor found his prostate. Victor grinned and went at it ruthlessly, until Sherlock was whimpering with every press of Victor's fingers. His cock ached, leaving slick trails that criss-crossed his belly from the constant shifting of his hips. He dug his fingernails into the tops of his thighs, resisting the urge to touch himself. It would be bad form to get himself off before Victor fucked him.  
  
Victor pulled back and grabbed the pillow next to Sherlock's head. He shoved it under Sherlock's hips and grabbed a condom, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth. He quickly rolled it on and slicked more lube over himself. Victor leaned over him as he hitched Sherlock's right leg over his shoulder and planted his hand next to Sherlock's hip, then used his other hand to align himself.  
  
Time slowed down as Sherlock felt the tip of Victor's cock press gently against his hole, then ease in just past the head. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he tipped his head back against the pillow. Victor allowed him a moment to adjust, but only a moment and then he was pushing in steadily. When he was halfway in, he withdrew his hand and gripped Sherlock's knee, urging him to spread his legs wider. Sherlock complied and Victor withdrew the slightest bit, then began thrusting slowly, going just a bit deeper on each inward stroke.  
  
Victor shifted his weight back on his knees, changing the angle and hitting Sherlock's prostate on his next thrust. Sherlock reached behind himself to grip the headboard and pushed back against Victor. Victor began thrusting harder, wringing the most undignified sounds from Sherlock in the process. Sherlock would be thoroughly mortified by it later, but he was too far gone by that point to care.  
  
Victor's hand tightened on his knee. "Touch yourself," he commanded. Sherlock uncurled his hand from the headboard and roughly fisted his cock. He knew it wouldn't take much for him to come and after a few quick pulls he felt the exquisite tightening of his muscles. He held his breath as the first pulse hit his chest, then let loose a deep, satisfied groan as he coated his fist and belly with his release. He noted absently that he'd produced a surprising volume of semen as he swpied his fingers through it. He glanced lazily up at Victor, who had been watching the whole thing. Victor surged down to kiss him violently, more teeth than anything, and after half a dozen quick thrusts, his body seized as he cried out against Sherlock's lips. Victor panted into his mouth between greedy kisses, finally slowing to a more languid pace before he eased out his softening cock.  
  
Sherlock winced at the momentarily uncomfortable sensation, but paid it little mind. He was wrung out and boneless, and he'd feel the pleasant ache for days. Sex had exceeded his expectations, though it helped that he'd had an experienced partner. He startled as a towel hit his chest. He'd been so wrapped up in the afterglow that he hadn't consciously registered Victor getting off the bed. He quickly cleaned himself up while Victor lit a fag and crawled back over him. He flopped down beside Sherlock and offered up the cigarette, which Sherlock took gratefully. They passed it back and forth until it was finished. Sherlock twisted around to stub it out in the ashtray. Victor pulled him back down to the bed and spooned up behind him, one hand resting possessively on Sherlock's hip.  
  
Victor's alarm blared at 7:01, jolting Sherlock from a sound sleep. Victor reached across him and fumbled around, knocking the ashtray and one of the glasses off the nightstand before hitting the off-button. Victor crawled out from under the covers and threw on the flimsy blue dressing gown that Sherlock had been wearing the night before, then toed on a pair of slippers and left the room. Sherlock rolled over into the warm spot where Victor had been and burrowed deeper under the covers. He wasn't ready to face the universally-dreaded 'morning after.' He didn't know if last night was to be a singular occurrence or a prelude to some form of relationship. He hoped it was the latter. He'd think about it later. For now he just wanted to sleep.  
  
Victor returned with a dustpan and broom and set about cleaning up the broken glass. Sherlock watched through slitted eyes as Victor picked up their discarded clothing and tidied the room. Sherlock had observed how meticulously kept the room was last night, a stark contrast to his own. It made sense. Victor had control issues, as was evidenced by his (frankly brilliant) sexual performance. It would only follow that the need for dominance spilled out into his environment. Textbook example of an overbearing father.  
  
Victor lit a cigarette and changed the CD in the stereo (something down tempo, soft female vocals and a mandolin?... no, zither; Sherlock liked it). Victor swayed to the music as he picked through the clothes in his wardrobe. He used the desk chair as a valet stand, hanging another pair of pinstriped trousers on the chair back, then draped a shirt in a shade of deep indigo over top. He pulled pants and a vest top from his dresser and laid them neatly on the seat of the chair. He selected two cravats from the wardrobe and held them against the shirt. One was a light blue colour with a subtle diagonal stripe, the other pale yellow with an intricate embroidered paisley motif that managed not to be tacky, the colour of the thread matching that of the shirt.  
  
"I'd go with the blue, if you're wearing it with your blue jacket," Sherlock offered from the bed.  
  
Victor looked over to him and smiled. "Good morning." He laid both ties down and came to sit on the side of the bed.  
  
"Morning," Sherlock returned, wondering what came next.  
  
"You are a sight," Victor said, pushing a lock of hair behind Sherlock's ear. He traced his fingertip down Sherlock's neck, stopping to tap a spot to the left of his Adam's apple. "You might want to keep your scarf on today," he smirked.  
  
Sherlock flushed, remembering the feel of Victor's mouth on his throat.  
  
Victor hummed and pressed down on the bruise lightly. "Oh, the things I want to do to you right now..." He withdrew his hand. "But I have a lecture at nine, so it will just have to wait. Go back to sleep while I get ready, and then I'll cook you breakfast." He bent down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead, then sprung up and out the door.  
  
Sherlock took it as a very good sign that he hadn't been kicked out, and allowed himself to doze. Sometime later, Victor came back. He hummed as he dressed, his movements lithe and graceful in time to the music coming from the stereo. It was like watching an odd sort of ballet/ reverse strip tease. Victor gathered Sherlock's clothes and laid them in a neat pile on the bed. "Everyone else is bound to be up soon. Best get some hot water while there's still some to be had. Towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom." Then he was out the door again.  
  
Sherlock felt content, languid. He could happily stay in Victor's bed all day. It was a rare occurrence that he was disinclined to get out of bed. Usually he was too full of nervous energy to keep his eyes closed for more than a few hours at a time. He'd ignored the pressure in his bladder and the gurgling in his stomach for too long though and, since Victor had been the one to suggest it, Sherlock did get up. He pulled on the dressing gown that Victor had hung behind the door and made his way to the bathroom.  
  
He took a quick shower, then studied himself in the mirror. Victor had given him two particularly livid lovebites- the one next to his Adam's apple, and one farther down on the side of his neck. Sherlock felt a thrill of pride run through him. He allowed himself a goofy grin, then schooled his face back to neutral.  
  
He'd just shaved the day before, so he didn't have to worry about using Victor's razor. He did use Victor's toothbrush though -- the idea of which he'd normally find horrifically disgusting but, when viewed from the perspective that four hours ago he'd had his mouth wrapped around Victor's cock, it wasn't so terrible. He returned to Victor's room and fished his own fags out of his coat pocket and lit one, relishing the rush of nicotine to his system. He dressed and went downstairs.  
  
He followed the scent of coffee and bacon to the kitchen and sat himself at the table. Victor abandoned the hob to set a mug of coffee in front of him and give him a proper good-morning kiss. Then he flitted back over to the stove.  
  
"You were simply amazing last night, darling." Victor slid the bacon out of the pan onto a plate. "How do you like your eggs? No wait, let me guess." He turned and squinted, tapping his chin theatrically. "Scrambled."  
  
Sherlock didn't much care for eggs, but it wouldn't do any good to point out this fact. He'd never been lavished with attention like this before, and he was going to bask in it. He smiled at Victor. "Scrambled would be lovely, thank you."  
  
Victor beamed and turned back to the worktop. Sherlock watched as he cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them, enjoying the way his shoulders moved in counterpoint to his arse. He poured the eggs into the pan with a flourish.  
  
Sherlock heard the heavy thump of barely-conscious footfalls on the stairs. Godfrey staggered into the kitchen and over to the coffee pot, lit cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke behind her. The cool, polished persona she'd displayed the night before was gone. She wore incongruously pink flannel pyjamas with a repeating pattern of cartoon monkeys. Her previously severely gelled hair fell in stiff strands over her eyes. She slumped into the chair opposite Sherlock and sipped her coffee.  
  
Without preamble, she addressed Victor. "You've got to stop bringing home screamers. It's bad enough I had only my right hand to keep me company, but then being woken up by this one?" she gestured to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock hunched over the table. He hadn't realized he'd been so loud. He wasn't ashamed that he'd had sex, or that other people knew he'd enjoyed it. It wasn't his fault that Godfrey had been alone last night, it would have happened sooner rather than later. He'd rather not have her make a scene about it, though.  
  
"Wil didn't work out then, sweetie?" Victor asked, stirring the eggs.  
  
"No. He was all 'too much drama, blah blah,' after he had to pull Vi off me. You were totally right about her being a crazy bitch, though."  
  
Victor dished the eggs onto the plate and added toast, then set the plate in front of Sherlock. Godfrey's hand snaked across the table and she grabbed a piece of bacon from the plate. Victor slapped her hand and she dropped it, withdrawing and scowling at Victor.  
  
"I thought you didn't eat pig," Victor said, grabbing his own plate and sitting down.  
  
"I'm not feeling very kosher."  
  
Sherlock discretely shoved the piece of bacon away from the others. He didn't want to think about where she'd just admitted that hand had been.  
  
Victor patted his arm. "Go ahead, tuck in." He took a dainty forkful of his eggs as if to demonstrate they were edible.  
  
Godfrey leaned across the table. "You must be a hellcat. He never cooks anyone breakfast," she said conspiratorially.  
  
Sherlock swallowed a dry mouthful of toast.  
  
Victor batted his eyelashes at her and sneered, "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"  
  
She took a drag of her cigarette and flipped him off. She slouched low in her chair, one arm flung casually over the back. She eyed Sherlock. Anyone else might find it disarming; he ignored her and continued to eat his breakfast.  
  
Eventually she gave up and fixed herself another cup of coffee. She lit another cigarette and wandered out of the kitchen.  
  
After breakfast, they returned to Victor's room. Victor donned his jacket and grabbed his bag (a smart black leather sling) before ushering Sherlock out into the hallway. There was an awkward moment at the front door when they realized they were headed in different directions.  
  
"So, I'll, um call you, then?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"If you like, although you could just come over again tonight." Behind Victor's expression of confident nonchalance, Sherlock read a hint of vulnerability.  
  
Sherlock smiled. "Okay."  
  
Victor stepped closer and stood on his tiptoes to give Sherlock a quick kiss on the lips. Sherlock hesitated. There were students zipping past on bikes, a group of three people farther down the road, one bloke a few doors away just coming out of the house. It wasn't that he didn't want to be seen kissing Victor - if there was anyone he'd want to be seen kissing, it would be him - he just didn't want to make such a declarative statement in public.  
  
Sherlock didn't really return the kiss, nor did he pull away. Victor looked peeved, but didn't say anything. He stepped back and tossed "See you later," over his shoulder as he started off down the street.  
  
From there, things moved very fast between them. Sherlock spent most of his free time with Victor. Regino convinced them to actually model for his sculpture (more precisely, Victor convinced Sherlock), and they spent long hours in Regino's studio space. Sherlock's possessions began a slow migration into Victor's room. Victor slept at Sherlock's all of twice before the clutter and haphazard organizational system got to him and he declared it a hazard to his health and sanity.  
  
Victor showered him with the praise and affection he craved. The sex was unbelievably good and constant. Sherlock thought that he could quite possibly be falling in love with Victor Trevor, and instead of being disgusted with himself for falling prey to the weaknesses of normal people, he was elated.  
  
Sherlock and Victor went with Irene to Berlin for the two weeks immediately preceding the start of the Easter term. She still hadn't abandoned the Weimar Republic aesthetic, but had taken to a more androgynous style and reverted back to her birth name. Sherlock made the mistake of comparing her to Annie Lennox (her singing voice was nearly identical) and she didn't speak to him for three days. They stayed in a dingy hotel room in what used to be East Berlin and dropped acid and smoked too many cigarettes. Sherlock mostly looked on while Victor and Irene argued some point or another, which usually always boiled down to minimalism (Irene) vs. aestheticism (Victor). Sherlock found it amusing.  
  
During the course of the Easter Term, Sherlock's marks plummeted. He'd stopped going to lectures entirely and only turned in coursework when it suited him. He was more interested in his insular little social circle. They frequented The Hellfire Club and spent endless nights crawling onto roofs to stargaze and drink wine and spout grand ideals. It was all very bohemian and a bit clichéd, but it was new and different and they _liked_ him.  
  
He skipped his exams to spend four days clubbing in London with Victor. He found his drug of choice over the course of that long weekend. Ketamine and MDMA were fun, but cocaine made him invincible.  
  
He made plans to return home for one week over the long holiday, then travel to Norfolk to spend a month with Victor. He'd been back home in Buckham Hill for three days when a letter from the university arrived.  
  
Sherlock Holmes would not be returning to Cambridge for a third year. He found that he really couldn't care less. His mother was in tears and his brother phoned from London to tell him what a disappointment he was to the family, but Sherlock wasn't bothered. He left the next day for Norfolk, promising his Mum he'd phone as soon as he got there. He hadn't told her that Victor was more than a friend. He would, eventually. She wouldn't be pleased with the news that Sherlock was gay and one major upset was enough for now.  
  
Victor met Sherlock at the train station. His father was away on business and the housekeeper only came twice a week, so they had eleven glorious days to spend wrapped up in what Victor referred to as 'Their Own Private Idaho.' Victor decided to forgo a post-graduate degree and they planned to move to London before the summer was through. Neither of them would have to find jobs for quite some time, as Victor received a monthly stipend from his father and Sherlock would come into a sizeable trust fund that he could access after his 21st birthday, which was less than six months away.  
  
Of course, that all came to an end when Victor's father returned home. He got in sometime in the morning, while Victor and Sherlock were still asleep. They didn't see him until the following afternoon, just after they'd had breakfast.  
  
Victor's father was in the back garden reading the newspaper. He was friendly enough when Victor introduced them. Victor mixed cocktails and they sat at the wrought iron table on the veranda. Pleasantries and small talk aside, Victor began telling his father how clever Sherlock was and the things he could tell about a person at a glance.  
  
"Really?" Mr. Trevor said sceptically. "And what do you make of me, then?"  
  
He hated this part. Victor, Irene, and Reg were the only people to ever find it fascinating rather than intrusive. He wanted Mr. Trevor to like him. What did one typically talk about with their boyfriend's father? He was a businessman, just like Sherlock's father had been, so something along those lines. "In the last year you've been fearful of losing business to a rival company."  
  
"No secret there. Holly Consolidated Freight went under just last month."  
  
"You play golf regularly."  
  
"You must have been in the shed and seen my clubs."  
  
"I haven't. Your hands are chafed at the bases of the thumbs from not wearing gloves while handling the clubs. Your tan lines indicate you've been wearing a short-sleeved v-neck shirt and the paler lines at your temple are from sunglasses. Your scalp is sunburned where you part your hair, but not the rest of your face; you've been wearing a visor. So, golf."  
  
Victor's father took this into consideration.  
  
Sherlock took this a good sign and continued. "You were in Japan for your company, but you flew to New Zealand after your business was concluded."  
  
"My daughter's just moved there."  
  
Victor shifted in his seat. Sherlock had found out that he'd always been jealous of his half-sister, since she'd always been the apple of his father's eye.  
  
"You've had laser treatments to remove a tattoo. It was a former romantic attachment, with the initials J.A."  
  
Mr. Trevor looked uneasy. "What do you know about that?"  
  
"I saw it when you moved in your chair." His shirt had been half-open, a blind man could have seen it. "The pigment is gone, but it's left scarring in the shape of the original design."  
  
Mr. Trevor coughed. "Yes, well, quite an eye you have. Good show. If you boys will excuse me, I've been putting off doing some real work for most of the day."  
  
Sherlock and Victor went about the business of lounging by the pool and discussing which neighbourhood they'd like to live in. Sherlock liked the West End, while Victor preferred the local colour around Camden Market. They finally compromised and agreed that Soho was acceptable.  
  
Sherlock didn't mention it to Victor, but Trevor senior was hiding something. J.A. was more than just an old flame. It wasn't Victor's mother, her maiden name had been Beddoes. It could have been his first wife, but he wouldn't have hidden that fact. Sherlock was confident that the tattoo hadn't been professionally done. The letters were too blocky and uneven. The kind of thing done with a sewing needle and India ink; a jailhouse tattoo. Of course, that didn't mean he'd been in jail, but also meant that he wasn't what he claimed to be either. Born into the lower classes and adopted a rough lifestyle in early adolescence (late 1940's -- early 1950's) to be sure. Sherlock wondered how much Victor knew about his own father.  
  
Two days later, a man arrived. He was roughly the same age as Victor's father. He wore a suit, but it was cheap and dated. The man introduced himself as Hudson, giving no first name. Mr. Trevor whisked him away to his study straight away, stammering excuses and looking nervous.  
  
Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. Victor had been less affectionate since his father had returned and outright refused sex on the grounds that he didn't want his father to hear them. His demeanour had shifted from open and playful to reserved. He even moved differently. His catwalk stride was replaced with a shuffling slouch, he kept his hands at his sides or in his lap when he talked, and he shifted back to a more local accent and dialect. Victor hadn't come out to his father, but the man had his suspicions. Victor was trying to avoid a conflict.  
  
Victor refused to talk about it when Sherlock brought it up, calling him a fucking hypocrite and rolling away from him to the far side of the bed.  
  
Sherlock hadn't so much come out of the closet as he'd been pushed out. He'd run into Sebastian and two of his mates at the train station the first weekend he and Victor had planned to go to London. It was just going to be the two of them, as Reg had still been working on the sculpture and Irene had decided she was 'tired of being their hag' and was instead 'going to spend the weekend finding the straightest man in Cambridge and having the most uninspired missionary sex possible', which had actually meant she was going to stay home and work on her dissertation.  
  
They'd already partially dressed in their club clothes, since neither of them had wanted to carry much in the way of luggage for two nights away. Sherlock had been dabbling with an early Trent Reznor look since they'd returned from Berlin. Tight black leather pants tucked into knee-high black boots were hard to disguise under his pea coat, as was the black nail varnish and eyeliner, but he hadn't thought about the possibility of being seen by anyone he knew while he'd been getting dressed.  
  
Sherlock had been entertaining Victor by telling him the deepest, darkest secrets of the students waiting for the southern train when he'd heard his name called incredulously from the behind him. He'd turned to find Seb - tailed by two obviously Harrovian freshers - coming toward him. He'd made the usual remarks about not having seen Sherlock around, asking what he'd been doing with his time. Victor had adopted his bitchiest pose and had slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist, answering Seb's question with "Me," and a flirty wink.  
  
Sherlock had known at the the time that it shouldn't have bothered him. Sebastian's opinion, to Sherlock, had always been meaningless. But Seb was the kind of bloke that Sherlock couldn't be like if he'd tried -- casually charming with an edge of ruthlessness that engendered respect instead of fear.  
  
"This is my _friend_ , Victor," he'd said, pulling away from Victor's arm.  
  
Sebastian had given them an assessing look, no doubt ready to spout some backhanded compliment, but the train had arrived, so he'd left with one of his smarmy smiles and an ominous promise of "I'll be sure to tell the lads I've run into you."  
  
Victor had waited until Seb had boarded the train, then had laid into Sherlock for his hesitance to declare Victor his boyfriend. Victor hadn't stopped there. He'd told Sherlock he could have had anyone, but had picked him, even though Sherlock was socially awkward and boring. He'd threatened to leave Sherlock and go find someone else, then had stormed off the platform and through the station.  
  
Sherlock had been stricken. Victor had become _everything_ to him. He'd chased after and had caught him up just outside the entrance. He'd apologized and pleaded with Victor not to leave him. Victor had cried and shouted accusations that Sherlock had been ashamed of him. Sherlock had argued back that he wasn't ashamed, he loved him, and whatever he'd been about to say next was cut off by a mouthful of Victor. He was sure they'd made quite the spectacle of themselves, but he'd decided not to care, since he'd felt like he'd dodged a bullet.  
  
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. He quietly fumed at Victor for being right. He hadn't told his own mother because she'd been upset enough over him being sent down, and the fact that he hadn't visited over the last break, and had only been home for a few days before leaving for a month. He knew she'd accept it, even if it would break her heart to know she'd raised two inverts; she'd moan about what she could have done wrong, but she'd still love him. She'd fret over him as she always had for the way people treated him. Mummy had been his first champion, raising holy hell with headmasters and other children's mothers. Maybe she'd just be happy he'd found someone.  
  
A wave of longing washed over him. He didn't want to be in Norfolk any more. Sherlock sighed and got out of bed. He got dressed and went downstairs, thinking a walk would clear his head. He'd try to convince Victor to come home with him instead. Mummy wouldn't like the fact that he was planning on moving to London so soon, but maybe if she met Victor she'd like him and wouldn't worry about her youngest son so much.  
  
On his way through the house, he noticed the door to Mr. Trevor's office was left ajar. His curiosity got the best of him and he slipped inside. He poked at the contents of the filing cabinets, but they were mostly old shipping manifests, timetables, and contracts dating back to the late 1980's. Too recent to be of interest. He flipped through the most recently disturbed books on the shelves, but they were just volumes of international shipping and maritime law. He picked the lock on the desk drawer with two paperclips and a biro. On top was a manilla envelope, new but creased down the centre and showing signs of wear. Like it had been carried on a long train ride under a jacket. Sherlock sniffed it. Yes, traces of sweat, polyester, and cheap cologne.  
  
Inside, there were some photocopied newspaper clippings and photographs. The photos were hard to make out. Two were Polaroids that had been taped to another sheet of paper before being copied, the other three normal sized prints. The contrast had been set too high on the copier, turning the faces into black and grey blobs. He could discern that one had been taken on a boat, two men flanking a petite woman in the centre. Judging by the cut of the clothing, it had been taken in the early 60's. The next was of two men posed against the corner of a light stone building, the outline of a palm tree visible in the background. Another was a picture of a small sailing yacht, but the name wasn't visible. The Polaroids were both pictures of the same woman from the first photograph. In one, she was sunbathing on the deck of the ship. The other was a close-up of her face, taken from a downward angle, smiling in a flirty, secretive sort of way. Nothing very interesting or incriminating.  
  
He moved onto the articles, which proved infinitely more useful in determining the nature of the envelope's contents. Clipping of a police blotter, no date, describing the body of a Jane Doe found behind a nightclub in Miami. Longer article, dated 10 October 1966, detailing the conviction of Jonathan "Jack" Prendergast on multiple charges of drug trafficking. A snippet on Prendergast's sentencing: given thirty years with time served. An obituary dated 4 May 1964, for Jemma Armitage, age 20, a British national attending the University of Miami. A small write-up on the unsolved murder case dated the day before the obituary.  
  
It painted a grim picture. Trevor senior had been involved with Jemma Armitage, whose murderer had never been caught. He must have been one of the men in the pictures. Prendergast was most likely another one of them, as was Hudson. Hudson had obviously been in Florida for years until recently, back in England no longer than six months. Trevor was in the shipping business, but had been born poor. How had he got his money? It may have come from Victor's mother. Not enough evidence to support Sherlock's suspicions on that count. Not enough data to draw any solid conclusions on anything yet, only enough to raise more questions.  
  
He slipped the photocopies back in the envelope and shut them back in the drawer, using the paperclips and biro to reset the lock. He double-checked to make sure the office was just as he'd found it and left, carefully leaving the door ajar. He continued out to the back garden. He liberated a half-full bottle of gin from the wet bar and sat in one of the lounge chairs by the pool. He lit a cigarette and absently watched the moonlight play over the ripples in the water.  
  
Should he tell Victor? Victor disliked his overbearing father, that much was evident, but he also sought his approval. Victor might resent Sherlock if he cast aspersions on Mr. Trevor. Unlike Sherlock, Victor didn't have the burning desire to know the absolute truth about everything. He was content to reject reality and substitute his own in any given situation. Sherlock hadn't established a pattern to Victor's logic. Some things were done on a whim, but Victor could be more shrewd and calculating than even Mycroft. It made it difficult to predict his actions and reactions in any given situation, and kept him infinitely fascinating.  
  
Sherlock was torn between leaving tomorrow and sticking around to investigate. He weighed the pros and cons, and ultimately came to the decision that it would be better if he left. He hefted himself out of the low chair and walked back into the house. It was half two and everything was quiet.  
  
He slipped his clothes off and slid back into bed. He spooned up behind Victor and kissed the side of his neck. Victor stirred and snuggled back into him on reflex, drawing Sherlock's arm tighter around his waist.  
  
"Vic," Sherlock murmured against his shoulder. He only called him 'Vic' in moments of tender intimacy. It was the closest to a pet name as Sherlock would ever come.  
  
Victor snuffled and made an annoyed little sound.  
  
Sherlock nibbled Victor's shoulder.  
  
"Lock, 'm sleepin'," he complained. Sherlock always felt a little bubble of affection when Victor shortened his name in kind. It was an unspoken agreement that they'd only use the abbreviated names when it was just the two of them with no one else around to hear. A secret shared between lovers.  
  
Sherlock sighed and settled against Victor. If he was annoyed, it would turn into a row, and Victor would refuse to come with him out of spite. He began listing the avenues open to him for investigating Trevor Senior as he lay curled around Victor.  
  
Victor was a creature of habit, and therefore out of bed at seven. Sherlock joined Victor in the shower, only to be pushed away. Frustrated and hurt and thoroughly sick of Victor's double standard, Sherlock left him in the shower and began packing.  
  
Sherlock had always been quiet when angry. He could shout the house down when he was annoyed or overwhelmed, but when he was angry, truly angry, he withdrew into cold fury. He methodically folded his clothing and arranged it in his suitcase, silently cursing the presence of Victor's father in the house. He knew his anger was irrational, and that just added fuel to the fire.  
  
Victor came back into the room still towelling his hair. "What are you doing?"  
  
Sherlock ignored him.  
  
"Sherlock..." Victor padded over to him and laid a hand on his arm.  
  
Sherlock's fingers tightened around the t-shirt he'd been folding. "You don't want me here, so I'm going home," he said calmly.  
  
Victor didn't like something about Sherlock's statement and his temper flared. Bitter words and accusations were exchanged on both sides. Victor stormed out dramatically, as he was prone to, and Sherlock finished packing his things. His mobile didn't get service anywhere on the Trevor estate, so he used the house phone to call a cab. He waited at the end of the drive for it to come and left without saying a word to Victor.  
  
He held himself together for the journey home and phoned his Mum to pick him up at the station. She tried asking him what was wrong, but he'd just told her that he didn't want to talk about it and she let it alone.  
  
He locked himself in his bedroom and cried for the better part of an hour, curled around a pillow like he had as a child. He hated himself for it. His mother knocked on his door once, but he'd shouted for her to go away. He spent the next day ignoring her until she knocked on his door to tell him he had a phone call from a girl named Irene. The hopeful look on her face made his gut twist unpleasantly.  
  
"Hello," he answered dully. He could hear the sounds of a city through an open window in the background, along with the slight shifting of fabric and Irene's breathing.  
  
"Hey yourself, sunshine. So I just talked to Himself, and he's a hot mess. What happened?" Irene's voice was cigarette-rough, as though she'd been smoking while talking for a long time. Knowing Victor, he'd whined to her for hours.  
  
He contemplated telling Irene the whole sordid tale, but it didn't feel right. It was private and Irene had been Victor's friend long before she'd been his.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Colour me surprised," she said. Her accent had thickened back into something horribly North Jersey and it made his skin crawl. Irene sighed, no doubt exhaling a cloud of smoke, and tried again. "I think he's cooled off a bit now. You should call him."  
  
"I didn't do anything wrong." It was a lie. He'd been intentionally cruel to Victor and had said things calculated to hurt. He regretted it, but everything he'd said had been true, just presented in the harshest way possible.  
  
"You held up a funhouse mirror to Narcissus," she paused to inhale. "Look, I wanted to tell you that I found a place in London. I have a friend at the British Museum, and he's got a flat to sublet. He's moving to Tangiers."  
  
Sherlock flopped back on his bed. "Is Victor going to live with you?"  
  
"I'm staying in New York. I've been offered a position at Columbia. I haven't even told him about it."  
  
"So why are you telling me? I can't afford London on my own."  
  
"God, you're thick. Victor needs grand gestures and declarations. You get yourself set up in the flat and it'll be like this never happened. That is, if you want him back. And you do, because you're _besotted_. You got a pen?"  
  
"I'll remember."  
  
She rattled off the contact information and pertinent details. "I'd love to kibbitz some more, but I'm doing my aunt a favour and I've got a voice class to teach. Don't be a stranger," she said, then rang off. Irene's grandmother had started a theatre school of some prestige, which had been passed on to her daughter. Irene had been involved since she was a child, but had ultimately decided to pursue academia over performance.  
  
Sherlock turned over what she'd said. After yesterday, he'd been sure Victor would never speak to him again. Irene was right about him needing grand gestures. Sherlock allowed himself to hope.  
  
He steeled himself for the phone call he knew he'd have to make. He didn't want to tell his mother everything just yet in case it didn't work out, but he would need more money then he had at present to pay the deposit on the flat. And he would have to go and look at it and do all those dreadfully boring adult things like paperwork and finding gainful employment. He dialled the phone.  
  
"Mycroft Holmes."  
  
"I need a favour."  
  
"So pleasant to hear from you so soon, brother mine. I can't get you back into Cambridge, but I've already placed some calls to a few acquaintances. University of Edinburgh is a step down, but if you get your degree-"  
  
He cut Mycroft off impatiently. "I don't want to go back. I want to move to London," Sherlock gritted his teeth for the next part, "and I'm going to need to a job."  
  
He enjoyed the stunned silence on the other end of the line, despite its cause. Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat and said, "I can arrange something." He sounded pleased and Sherlock scowled at the phone.  
  
"Good."  
  
"Have you told Mummy yet?"  
  
"No. I don't want to get her hopes up that I may yet become a productive member of society."  
  
"I was referring to your boyfriend."  
  
"No. And you better keep your fat mouth shut, Mycroft," he sneered. Of course his brother had figured it out.  
  
Mycroft made a little hum of disapproval. "In any case, give me a week. Chechnya, you know."  
  
Sherlock rung off and lay back on the bed.  He contemplated calling Victor. He wouldn't, not yet.  
  
He moved into the dingy basement flat on Montague Street at the end of July. It was one room, roughly the size of a postage stamp (plus a bathroom), and had one window which happened to face the bins behind the restaurant above. Sherlock understood why it hadn't been snatched up right away, even if it was in a prime location.  
  
Mycroft had loaned him his car (and really, Sherlock couldn't see the point of owning a car in London, unless one had to transport unwieldy things, but they had cabs for that) and one of his interns, the only one he could spare apparently, to help haul boxes. She was only a year older than Sherlock and had a pager that kept going off. It was dreadfully annoying, but he was secretly grateful for the help.  
  
He'd phoned Victor the day he'd signed the lease on the flat. Things hadn't gone to plan then, as Victor hadn't deemed Sherlock's gesture grand enough; he required more proof in the form of grovelling and tearful apologies. Sherlock did posses some dignity, so he'd told Victor he was a selfish, spoiled brat and hit the disconnect button on the phone so hard that it got stuck and he had to pry it free with a screwdriver.  
  
Victor called him two days later and acted as though nothing had happened. He spent most of their hour-long conversation complaining about Hudson, whom Victor's father had taken on as a maintenance man/ pool cleaner/ gardener. He bemoaned how dreadfully dull the countryside was. Sherlock obstinately didn't ask Victor to move to London again.  
  
He missed Victor terribly. He hadn't seen him in a month. The longest they'd been apart before their row (break-up?) was a four-day stretch. Sherlock had grown dependent on Victor and felt lost without him. He didn't know if they were even still _in_ a relationship. Victor phoned again the next day and his voice had taken on the low, breathy quality that Sherlock had always associated with seduction. They had awkward (on Sherlock's end) phone sex, but Victor didn't mention a thing about their possible physical reunion. It was maddening.  
  
Mycroft had set Sherlock up with an internship in some back-bencher's office. His only duties were to make tea and collate photocopies. It was mind-numbing and he hated every second of it, but it also allowed him access to government databases. He began compiling data on Trevor Senior and the others involved. He kept himself otherwise occupied with testing and cataloguing every strain of mould and mildew he found in the flat.  
  
The phone calls from Victor became a regular occurrence over the next two weeks, sometimes for phone sex, sometimes only to talk like they used to. Victor usually phoned after midnight, but his call came earlier one Tuesday evening.  
  
Victor was in tears. His father had overheard Victor's half of the conversation the night previous (which, as Sherlock recalled, would have been enough to make a porn star blush) and had confronted his son. Victor had admitted to his father that he was in love with Sherlock and Trevor Senior had cut him off completely.  
  
Victor said he had already posted a few boxes of his things to Sherlock's flat and that he was calling from the rail station. Sherlock knew he should feel a bit of resentment at Victor's presumption, and probably empathy that his father had disowned him, but all he felt was elation at the prospect of having Victor back.  
  
He met Victor's train three hours later and snogged him silly on the platform. They took a taxi back to the flat. Victor was less than impressed. It didn't matter though, because they were together and they could be living in a cardboard box under Waterloo bridge for all Sherlock cared.  
  
They had shy, apologetic sex under the covers, full of soft words and gentle touches. It wasn't the most exciting sex they'd ever had, sort of boring actually, but it was more about communication than getting off.  
  
Sherlock bunked off work that day and they spent it making up for lost time. In between bouts of vigorous sex and take-away, Victor told him what a sleaze Hudson was. The man had taken up residence in the guest house and spent most days drunk. He'd sneered at Victor when he was nearby, but had otherwise ignored him.  
  
Victor suspected Hudson was blackmailing his father for something. Sherlock deliberated over telling Victor what he'd uncovered so far, but decided against it. He didn't have the full story. He'd also just got Victor back and didn't want to take the chance of upsetting him.  
  
Sherlock quit his job by the end of the week. Well, not so much quit as he simply stopped going in. Mycroft called, furious again, but agreed to loan him money until he could find something worth doing.  
  
With nothing to do but laze about the flat, Victor suggested they work their way through every club in London. Since they were usually broke, they would split up once inside the club and con free drinks and, if they were lucky, free drugs out of the patrons. Sometimes they'd even bring someone interesting (meaning they had a ready supply of coke and/ or other illicit substances) home with them and spend hours lost in chemical oblivion.  
  
In October, Victor was offered a job as a promoter by one of the more exclusive clubs they'd taken to visiting. It suited him. Sherlock went with him everywhere, but the club scene began to lose its appeal. It was the same thing, night after night -- vapid socialites, unimaginative techno music, letting someone paw at him just to score. Not only that, but Victor had begun picking out his clothing before they went anywhere, even to do the shopping (when they actually remembered they needed to do such trivial things). Sherlock liked the look he sported at the clubs, a bit BDSM with some medical fetishism thrown in (he'd spent days altering a straight-jacket, adding more buckles and straps and stains to make it look truly grotesque, it was his pride and joy); he'd even got his lip pierced. It attracted the goths in droves, but they were generous with pills, so it worked out. Still, this... _persona_ wasn't who he wanted to be all the time.  
  
\---------------------------  
  
John had been quiet up until that point in the narrative. Sherlock must have noticed the scrutinizing look John had trained on his mouth.  
  
"I waited until I was twenty-seven to have plastic surgery. It was the best they could do." Sherlock smirked and the mark dimpled.  
  
"You know, I always thought that spot under your lip was probably from chicken pox." John got up to make them more tea. He returned and settled in for the rest of the story.  
  
\----------------------------  
  
Sherlock decided that he wanted to take a break from the scene. Victor pouted about it, and he was a complete bitch to live with the first time Sherlock opted out of a night of revelry, but he got over it.  
  
Sherlock focused on the investigation that he'd let languish. He wrote to the Miami-Dade D.A. and requested the court records of Prendergast's trial, along with the Armitage case files, which was made more pleasurable by the fact that it allowed him to practice his forgery skills. While waiting for a reply, he followed up on the lists of names of people possibly connected to Trevor and his cronies. Most were either dead or in jail, but he found Hudson's wife living in London, not too far from Regent's Park. He took to tailing her just before Christmas, spending most of his time in the sandwich shop next to her flat. The only thing Sherlock could determine was that she liked to do her shopping on Sundays and she visited with another woman down the street three times a week.  
  
Victor OD'd on Christmas Day. At first Sherlock thought he was just K-holing; then he noticed the thin sheen of sweat and the shallow breaths. He wasn't sure what Victor had taken. They rarely did the same drugs together, as their tastes tended to diverge. Sherlock used psychotropics at home and left cocaine for the clubs; Victor used anything, anytime, anywhere. Sherlock was too far gone himself on a special blend of MDMA, psilocybin, ephedrine, and the dregs of K that he'd scraped from the insides of the empty bags and vials laying around the flat. He could do little more than roll Victor into the recovery position and pull up Mycroft's entry in the address book on his mobile and keep his thumb next to the call button. Thankfully, Victor didn't stop breathing or go into cardiac arrest or die. Sherlock found out later that he'd been speedballing and had miscalculated the dosage for insufflation.  
  
Sherlock went along to the club's New Year's party, but stayed to the edge of the crowd, preferring to watch Victor dance and schmooze. Victor loved to be the centre of attention, and Sherlock didn't. Sherlock's heart quietly broke when Victor kissed some twink in glittery hotpants at midnight. It wasn't one of the just-for-fun kisses being exchanged by the club-goers. It was a full-on snog with _intent_. Sherlock left the club and walked home from the far end of Soho.  
  
It might not have meant anything. Victor loved a spectacle.  
  
But.  
  
The kiss should have been Sherlock's. A kiss at midnight was a stupid tradition, one that he'd avoided from the age of seven. Before that he thought it was great fun when a slightly tipsy Mummy (who had always been a bit bohemian herself and had taken the tradition from his American-born Gram) would pick him up and spin him around, covering his face with tiny kisses and laughing. Of course, he'd outgrown that and had avoided the parties altogether from the ages of nine to nineteen.  
  
Sherlock stewed in jealousy and resentment until he reached the flat. He was alone, alone, alone, and had no one to talk to. No one to make him feel better. He'd grown too comfortable with the illusions of love and friendship. Self-directed anger tingled just under his skin and made his muscles tense. Honestly, where were his friends now? No one had heard from Reg since September and Irene had fucked off back to New York. Victor was the only one left, and Victor was the love of his life, like air and water and _everything_ , and now Sherlock had lost him too.  
  
Sherlock went back to his former constant companion, his violin. He wiped the dust off of the case with a balled-up t-shirt and removed the instrument tenderly. He suddenly felt sorry for abandoning it these long months. Stupid, it was an inanimate object. He prepared the instrument with more reverence than he usually showed it and began to play.  
  
He started off with the pieces that used to comfort him as a young teenager. 'Kashmir' flowed into 'Somebody to Love', then on to The Cure and Depeche Mode as his mood took a turn for the maudlin. He played the songs that reminded him of Victor, mostly a mix of Bowie and the second Radiohead album. He picked his way through an adaptation of 'Sour Times' before finally giving up. He played for hours, and his fingers were sore and all the notes ran together in his head and it was horrible. He abandoned the violin to its case.  
  
He stripped his club gear and let it sit in a heap in the middle of the free space that they tentatively called a lounge. He showered and put on clean pyjamas. The anger had left him and he was hollow. A yawning, gaping, bottomless black pit of white noise and fog. He just wanted to shut off his brain and sleep, or else he would start crying. He hated crying.  
  
He avoided the bed, _their_ bed, choosing to curl up on the floor instead. He wished they had a sofa, or even an armchair, but the only furniture in the place was the small table and rickety wooden chairs in the five feet of space that served as a kitchen, along with the bed and a beanbag that had lost most of its contents and been repaired with layers of duct tape.  
  
Sherlock gave in and moved from the floor to the bed when he began to ache from the cold. He spent most of the day staring at the texture of the plaster where the wallpaper had been ripped away in uneven strips. Victor didn't return home until the early afternoon of the 2nd. He came back showered and wearing clothes that were obviously not his, not even close to his usual style.  
  
Victor chattered happily while he went about making tea. Names Sherlock didn't recognize, something about piling in someone's car and taking wrong turns and ending up in Folkestone. Victor chided Sherlock for leaving early and missing out on the fun. Sherlock thought it was more than he could bear and he would die if he had to hear much more. He curled tightly in on himself.  
  
Finally Victor noticed and set about cooing over him and cuddling up around him, apologizing for not calling, telling him how sweet it was that Sherlock had been worried. Sherlock wasn't listening, he was concentrating on breathing through his mouth so he didn't have to smell the scent of foreign soap and shampoo and any underlying scent of whatever man Victor had spent his time with. He wanted to ask _why_ ; why he wasn't good enough or interesting enough any more, why Victor had kissed someone else, why Victor had stopped loving him.  
  
He didn't, though, and kept quiet while Victor mouthed at his neck and ran his hand over Sherlock's hip and thigh.  
  
"I missed you," Victor mumbled into his shoulder, nipping the skin through Sherlock's t-shirt.  
  
Sherlock hated him for lying. He hated himself more for wanting to believe it. He was too tired to start a fight, having run his brain ragged with self-recrimination for the last thirty-odd hours.  
  
"Was only a bit of fun, like we used to have with Irene and Reg, yeah?" He teased the shell of Sherlock's ear with his tongue. "C'mon Lock, you know I only love you."  
  
"You kissed someone."  
  
"You're upset over that? I didn't even know his name. He was just there. I wanted to kiss my boyfriend, but he was nowhere to be found. You just abandoned me to go and sulk against the wall."  
  
Of course Victor was going to try to turn this around on him.  
  
"Go away, Victor."  
  
"I got you a present," he said, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's thigh and wiggling around, pulling something from his trouser pocket. He produced a plastic bag and shook it in front of Sherlock's face.  
  
Little shreds of brown... something. Not from a leaf, more fibrous and smooth... Root bark.  
  
Victor went back to sucking kisses into his neck. " _Mimosa tenuiflora_. So why don't we have proper good-morning and then you can cook us breakfast..."  
  
Sherlock relaxed, just the littlest bit. Extracting and refining alkaloids was always an enjoyable process and he'd never tried DMT before. He'd mentioned it ages ago, after Victor had brought home some peyote buttons and he'd cooked up his first batch of mescaline. He wondered how Victor had got his hands on it. It wasn't like there was an abundance of fairly rare South American flora just floating around London. It must have taken time and favours and delicately worked connections.  
  
Emotion swelled in Sherlock's chest. For Victor to take the time to procure him the raw materials instead of just the drug itself... Well, it was probably what women felt when they got diamonds. He uncurled himself and turned into Victor's embrace.  
  
They celebrated Sherlock's birthday - and, by extension, the unlocking of his trust fund - by flying to New York to see Irene. She'd settled down and was dating a nice Jewish lawyer, just like her mother had always wanted. They stayed in the Hotel Chelsea and wandered through lower Manhattan and Victor bought more clothes than their suitcases could hold. They only stayed for four days because, according to Victor, Irene was boring and the clubs weren't as interesting as the ones back home.  
  
Victor had been making a name for himself and landed a contract to organize a private party from one of the people he'd been with New Year's day. It was to be an exclusive affair in a flat in Belgravia and he spent much of his time arranging the entertainment. A constant parade of drug dealers and high-class prostitutes kept Sherlock away from the flat, as they were dull and tiresome to be around. He went back to his surveillance of Mrs. Hudson.  
  
One day in early February, Sherlock was drinking bad coffee inside Speedy's and idly browsing the notice board. Business cards tacked over lost animal flyers and cleaning service adverts, nothing interesting. A partially obscured to-let notice for 221C - how had he not seen it before? It must have been covered by something else, as it was months old. He walked outside and used his mobile to call the telephone number given. A kind-sounding older woman answered, Mrs. Hudson herself, and he arranged to see the flat the next day.  
  
He dressed in tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, along with his old pea coat and grey scarf. He removed the ring from his lip and used make-up to cover the hole. It wasn't perfect, but it resembled a cold sore more than a piercing. There wasn't much to be done about his shaggy hair short of cutting it, so he just combed it into some semblance of order and set off to see a woman about a flat.  
  
Mrs. Hudson greeted him warmly at the door and took him directly to the flat. She played up what few desirable features the place had, and Sherlock got his opportunity when she made a comment about sharing a similar place with her husband when they'd been newlyweds.  
  
Sherlock asked if her husband was the one to maintain the building and she offered more information that he'd been expecting, though nothing he hadn't already figured out on his own.  
  
"Oh, heavens no dear. I haven't seen him in years. He moved to the States, and I wouldn't go. It was always just too much of a bother to get divorced." There was more she wasn't telling him, but it was a good start.  
  
She invited him upstairs for tea and they discussed rent and the like. Sherlock eventually circled the conversation back around to her husband when she'd asked him if he had a girlfriend.  He answered with a simple 'no.' She was a bit more perceptive than he'd given her credit for; she patted his knee and reassured him there were all sorts in the neighbourhood. He asked how she'd met her husband.  
  
Mrs. Hudson was not the sweet little old lady he'd first thought. She launched into a tale that began with her as a go-go dancer in the early days of swinging London and ended with her husband's move to Florida in 1973. She spoke fondly of her memories of the time period, but not her husband. Apparently, there hadn't been much love lost between them.  
  
"So you've been alone all this time?" Sherlock asked out of genuine curiosity.  
  
"Oh no dear." Her eyes twinkled. "I might not be so young any more, but I still know how to have a good time."  
  
He was glad she'd picked up on his sexuality, because he got the feeling that otherwise she would have tried to seduce him.  
  
Sherlock found he quite liked her, and wondered how she could have been married to a cretin like David Hudson. He left sometime later, telling her he still had a few months left on his lease and he would be in touch.  
  
The records finally came through from the Miami-Dade County Sheriff's Department a few days later. Sherlock spent hours poring over the coroner's report. Armitage had been strangled with some kind of thick synthetic rope. There was evidence that she'd had sex one to three hours before her death, but hadn't been sexually assaulted. He despaired at the state of forensic science in 1964. At least the photographs were clear.  
  
He reconstructed the events as best he could. Going by the toxicology report, she'd had trace amounts of cocaine in her system, along with a blood alcohol level that - for someone of her height and weight - was on the verge of potentially fatal. She'd last been seen by her college roommate leaving a bar with a man at 11:45 PM on the night of the murder. The coroner had set the time of death between 3:00 and 3:30 AM. A witness had described the vehicle she'd entered, but no plate number; the vehicle was never found.  
  
The details began to blur together. Endless cups of coffee and chain-smoking could only do so much to keep his mind focused. He dug trough the pockets of Victor's trousers, neatly sorting the different types of drugs into piles by effect. At last he found some coke. He cut up a line on the the back of a CD case ( _Portrait of an American Family_ , recorded in a murder house, fancy that) and within seconds a sudden inspiration hit.  
  
He re-read the description of the ligature marks along with the internal injuries sustained to the neck, then drew out the angle of the assault. He cross-referenced it with the heights of the three men in the photos. Assuming she'd been leaning over (and the aspirated vomit and stains on her dress corroborated that, along with the traces of limestone on her palms), braced up against one of the white-stuccoed walls prevalent in the architecture of the area, and that the man had come up on her from behind, it had to be Hudson. The others were too tall.  
  
He spent the next thirty hours developing and recording his theory, as borne out by the details he could glean from the Armitage file and the evidence submitted in the Prendergast trial. Victor buzzed in and out, absorbed in the final stages of his own project; he brought more blow at Sherlock's request. He still hadn't mentioned to Victor what he'd been working on and Victor hadn't asked.  
  
He called in another favour from his brother and gained access to some politician's legal library and spent time researching international, maritime, and Florida state law. When he'd gathered enough information he went to see Mrs. Hudson. She was pleasantly surprised and invited him in for more tea after he'd explained he wasn't there to have another look at the flat. He didn't waste time with pleasantries.  
  
He started with her husband's involvement in the the drug-running operation. Mrs. Hudson displayed no surprise. When he moved on to his conclusions on the murder, her lips tightened and her face grew pale.  
  
"He always did fancy her. Used to talk about 'Trevor's bird' all the time, when he was just home from a run. Part of the reason I got rid of him. That, and I was always afraid of what he was capable of when he was in a state. He was a terrible man. He should rot," she said, nodding to herself.  
  
"The state of Florida easily has the case for second-degree murder against your husband. With your testimony, I can make it first with aggravating circumstances. They have the death penalty and one of the highest execution rates in the United States."  
  
A look of grim determination came over Mrs. Hudson's face. She nodded again, decisive.  
  
Sherlock waited to tell Victor until the day after the party.  
  
Victor didn't take it well. He screamed at Sherlock and broke every dish in the flat (which numbered less than ten), then moved on to Sherlock's chemistry equipment. Sherlock dodged most of what was thrown his way, pleading with Victor to calm down and look at the situation rationally.  
  
Sherlock explained that they could only make the case for accessory after the fact, and that was tenuous at best, and that the statute of limitations had long since expired on the drug-running.  
  
Eventually, between flying boots and hurled insults, all the details of Victor's rage came out. If his father was implicated in a crime that had been discovered by Victor's _boyfriend_ , he would most likely be written completely out of the will.  
  
Sherlock countered that they didn't need the money, they were doing fine on their own. This sent Victor into a fresh bout of hysteria. He hated the way they lived, he hated the flat, he hated that Sherlock didn't care about anything, including him. Victor stormed out of the flat and didn't come back for three days.  
  
Sherlock spent the first few hours quietly angry at Victor's tantrum and the fact that Victor couldn't be happy for him. He'd spent so much time piecing everything together, it was a fucking _masterpiece_ , and Victor had just brushed it off.  
  
He spent the next few hours berating himself because he'd known Victor would react poorly, but he'd gone ahead and told him anyway. He should have chosen his words more carefully, instead of letting it all spill out in an excited jumble.  
  
After that, he cleaned up the worst of the damage to the flat. He went out and bought a set of new dishes, ridiculously expensive and elegant-but-understated, something that suited Victor's tastes. If he were only buying them for himself, any odd collection from the charity shop would have worked just as well.  
  
He grew fidgety after Victor had been gone twelve hours. He tidied the tiny flat from top to bottom, because Victor always complained about Sherlock's mess. He boxed up the case files and his notes and slid them under the bed. He did the laundry and put it away instead of just leaving it in the basket to be used as needed.  
  
He tried Victor's mobile and, when he didn't pick up, Sherlock sent a text message asking where he was. It too went unanswered, which was unsurprising; Victor didn't have the patience for text messages.  
  
He went out and purchased a replacement lab set-up and had it delivered to the flat. He contented himself with optimizing the configuration on the kitchen table for maximum efficiency, but that only took so long and soon he was back to fidgeting.  
  
He was tempted to mix up a cocktail of psychotropics, but he wanted to be straight when ( _if_ ) Victor returned.  
  
He went for a walk. He came home and scrubbed the bathroom within an inch of its life, a chore both of them utterly despised. He slept for nine hours, made himself tea, then went back to sleep for another six.  
  
Victor returned and acted as though he hadn't been gone at all. Sherlock was just glad he was _home_. Victor didn't comment on the state of the flat or the fight, but he did thank Sherlock for the new dishes with an unspectacular blowjob. Sherlock took it as a sign of forgiveness. When he went to reciprocate, Victor begged off as tired and crawled into bed to sleep fully clothed.  
  
Alarm bells rang in Sherlock's head. Victor slept naked most of the time, even when they hadn't had sex. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he didn't undress because there was something on his body that he didn't want Sherlock to see.  
  
Sherlock didn't know what to do. Victor had obviously cheated as retaliation for the fight they'd had with the specific intention of hurting Sherlock. But he must have regretted it, since he'd tried to hide it. Victor had sworn he'd only kissed that other bloke on New Year's, hadn't done anything more, and Sherlock believed him. He'd eventually forgiven him, since it was only a kiss. But this... this wasn't the the same thing. Had he fucked someone? Let himself be fucked? Who was it? Christ, was there more than one? Sherlock needed to know.  
  
Sherlock wasn't a violent person by nature, he really wasn't, but he wasn't gentle as he manhandled Victor out of his clothes. Victor didn't fight him or even protest, which was a sure sign of his guilt. And there across his pale chest and stomach, _there_ was the evidence in the form of teethmarks and scratches. Sherlock demanded a name. Victor cried and pleaded and told him it was nothing, meant nothing, even as Sherlock tightened his grip on Victor's shoulders enough to leave his own bruises.  
  
When he realized what he was doing, he let go of Victor, pulling away in horror. He felt sick. He grabbed his coat and fled.  
  
Sherlock knew that the relationship hadn't been what one would deem healthy for some time. Maybe it hadn't ever been. It wasn't as though he had any basis for what constituted a healthy relationship. His parents' marriage had been a war of attrition until his father died of a heart attack when Sherlock was twelve.  
  
He'd been happy with his relationship with Victor not being 'normal.' Normal was boring. Victor had never been boring. Mercurial, sometimes predictably so, a bit shallow and selfish, but never boring. Despite his wicked side, Sherlock loved Victor, so much it hurt sometimes, which was a tired cliché. But the hurt wasn't only from how much he loved Victor. Victor could be cruel, just as cruel as anyone had ever been to him, and all the kisses in the world never really ever made up for it.  
  
Victor loved him though, didn't he? He said it enough, usually when apologizing for something, but other times too. Mumbled sleepily against Sherlock's chest after sex, or on his way out the door, or in the context of negating an insult ("You're weird, but I love you.").... Although, when was the last time he'd said it with any sincerity? Granted, Sherlock didn't say it much either, because he wasn't raised like that. A pat on the head or an awkward hug was the most affection he'd received from his father or brother. Mummy told him she loved him every night when he was small, but after he'd grown out of bedtime stories and good-night forehead kisses, that had stopped too. A Holmes did not express affection. It wasn't dignified.  
  
God, it was terrible. He'd become just like everyone else without even noticing. He'd always thought what he had with Victor was unique, _transcendent_ , but in reality it was just another neurochemical process.  
  
And really, what did they have in common besides sex and drugs a small overlapping selection of music? Sherlock grasped for any coinciding personal attributes. They were both a bit vain about their personal appearance. They both held a marked disdain for societal convention. They both had strong (often conflicting) personalities. They both... Well, that was about it.  
  
Sherlock felt immense gratitude toward Victor for bringing him out of his shell. He also resented him for it. Everyone who liked Sherlock did so just because he was Victor's boyfriend, going all the way back to Reg and Irene. He'd learned how to better navigate social situations from watching Victor's interactions and how to manipulate other people into getting what he wanted from them. It was a valuable skill, but a means to an end and nothing that gave him a sense of personal fulfilment.  
  
Without Victor, he was truly alone in the world. His mother and brother didn't count, because they were family. On the best days he barely tolerated his brother and his Mum was just his Mum.  
  
Sherlock didn't know what to do. It was like he'd been looking at the last year through dusty glass and he'd just now thought to clean it. He'd been a lovesick fool.  
  
Sherlock thought of Jemma Armitage. Her living family (one sister; parents long dead, brother deceased since 1987) deserved to know. Hudson deserved to go to jail (at the very least) for doing it. It had been a brutal act of premeditated murder and it just wasn't _right_ that it remained officially unsolved, not when Sherlock had solved it. Victor could understand that, couldn't he?  
  
No. Thinking back to their row, he'd made it clear that material security was the only thing that mattered to him.  
  
Victor wasn't the kind of person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Sherlock would rather be alone.  
  
He turned around and headed for home. He would give Victor two weeks to clear out of the flat.  
  
He returned to the flat to find Victor in his dressing gown, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs and staring at the door. He was up and over to Sherlock in seconds, plastering himself tight to Sherlock and spouting apologies and crocodile tears.  
  
Sherlock felt his resolve waiver just the littlest bit, but calmly extracted himself from Victor and told him that it was over. Victor reacted as to be expected (violently), but Sherlock just stood silent and let Victor scream himself hoarse. The new dishes were the first thing to go, but Sherlock blocked Victor's path to his lab equipment.  
  
Victor turned and stalked over to the wardrobe, pulling clothes out at random and throwing them on the bed. He fished his suitcase out from under the bed and shoved them in, then got dressed and stomped out.  
  
Sherlock collapsed on the bed. He didn't feel devastated that Victor was gone. He didn't feel happy or relieved or much of anything. He was numb.  
  
He went to Florida with Mrs. Hudson in tow the next week.  
  
\-------------------------------  
  
John sat back in his chair, his tea long gone cold. "What's any of this got to do with Langdale Pike?" he finally asked.  
  
Sherlock sighed. "Langdale Pike is the pseudonym used by Victor Trevor."  
  
"Oh." John offered. He knew he had a very limited number of questions that would be answered before Sherlock grew tired of the whole thing and wandered away, so he had to choose carefully; he would decide how he felt about everything later.  
  
"Was his father ever found out?"  
  
"Died of complications from a stroke before the case went to trial. I downplayed his personal involvement to the police, so there wasn't an investigation. They'd had enough trouble with Mr. Hudson's extradition, I expect." Sherlock's face belied the fact that there was more to that bit of the story than he was letting on. John suspected Mycroft had had a hand in it.  
  
"What, ehm, what happened to the sculpture?"  
  
"Bought by an American media mogul. Reg never said whom." Sherlock unfurled himself from his chair and stretched. "Are you coming to bed soon, or will you be up for a bit?"  
  
No more questions then. "I still have the washing up to do and it's rubbish night."  
  
Sherlock gave a dismissive snort, but bent to give John a peck goodnight before ambling back to the bedroom.  
  
John puttered around the flat, taking his time to finish cleaning up and getting everything in order before he settled in for the night. He needed some time to digest the revelation and fit the new pieces into the mosaic that was his mental image of Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock, when talking about his past (which in and of itself was a rare occurrence), tended to dump large chunks of information in a short amount of time, then act as though he hadn't said a word. John understood Sherlock's reasons for it, since he was reluctant to talk about his own past (well, the parts that actually _mattered_ ), but it was always a bit like recovering from a flash-bang grenade afterwards.  
  
John double-checked the doors and windows and shut off the lights. He padded into the bedroom and stripped down to his pants and vest, trying to be quiet in case Sherlock hadn't fallen fully asleep yet. Sherlock lay curled on his side, facing away from the door and John's side of the bed. His breathing was slow and even, but that wasn't a reliable indicator of his state of consciousness.  
  
By now, John knew that Sherlock considered the matter closed and any questions or comments about it from John would be met with stony silence. That didn't mean that Sherlock wasn't still affected by his private memories, though, and John had come to learn just how deeply Sherlock's emotions ran. It was fine, if they didn't talk about it; John preferred actions to words.  
  
He slid into bed and wrapped himself around Sherlock's lanky frame, finding Sherlock's hand and interlacing their fingers. Sherlock gave no outward sign of being awake, but gave John's hand a light squeeze.


End file.
